Guy of the Tiger
by WowRandomPerson
Summary: A rainy evening at Foster's sees the arrival of a new houseguest: a certain sardonic, bipedal tiger. His arrival brings unforeseen and far-reaching repercussions, permanently altering the lives and identities two pairs of best friends.
1. Chapter 1

It was just another rainy afternoon.

Mac and Bloo sat in the Foster's sitting room, bemoaning the crummy weather. The weather conditions were indeed particularly vexing considering summer had just begun and Mac had finally been let out of school for break last week. And where was the summer sun? Sleeping on its job.

Bloo was staring out the window with intensity. An unfinished game of checkers lay on the table in front of him. "But _Maaaac," _said Bloo, drawing out his creator's name in his usual nasal voice. _"Why _can't we play outside in the puddles? Come _onnnnn. _Just for _five minutes_." Mac rolled his eyes. "I _told _you, Bloo," Mac said, a note of impatience finding its way into his voice, "This weekend's the annual weekend my dad comes to visit; he won't be happy if I get sick. Again. Remember what happened last time we went out in the rain for an extended period of time?" Bloo looked at the boy with an earnestly blank expression. Mac sighed. "When we got sick after playing in the mud and Frankie had to take me home?" Mac asked. Bloo continued to stare blankly at him.

"When Wilt, Coco, and Eduardo thought you were a ghost because you got all pale and oozed disgusting mucus all over everything?" Mac asked.

No response.

"When Frankie crashed the Foster's Bus into the House because she thought she was being followed by a monster?" Mac continued.

Bloo's eyes were beginning to narrow. He was losing interest fast.

"_When Wilt, Coco, and Eduardo tried to suck you into a vacuum?" _Mac asked, over-annunciating each word, the tone of his voice bordering on desperation. Frankie, Wilt, Coco, and Eduardo had filled him in on all of this the day after it had happened, and though Mac had been quite under the weather that day, he still remembered their story.

"Nope. Doesn't ring a bell," Bloo said finally, completely indifferent. The imaginary blue blob was staring out the window again. The boy was once again amazed at what little power of retention his best friend had. But then, that had all happened nearly two years ago. Bloo sometimes had trouble remembering things that happened five minutes prior.

"But _whyyyy _can't we go outside and play in the puddles?"

Mac could feel the heat of exasperation in his head; he let out a groan of frustration. "BECAUSE I DON'T WANT TO BE SICK WHEN MY DAD COMES TO VISIT THIS WEEKEND." Bloo looked back at his creator from the window. "Oh, _yeeeaaah," _said Bloo, "your _dad." _Bloo seemed to turn this over in his head for a few moments. Mac, relieved, turned away from Bloo and the window and back to the checkerboard, only to be tackled out of his chair and onto the floor within mere seconds by Bloo, who had launched across the table and obliterated their checkers game (Bloo been losing, anyway). Before Mac could realize what was happening, Bloo was grabbing at the collar of Mac's shirt and shrieking at him in a full-blown tizzy, his voice raised three octaves and near-tangible waves of indignity rolling off his little blue body. "But if you're gonna be with your dad all weekend, then you can't visit _me! _And if you can't visit _me_, then the deal with Madam Foster is _off!_ And if the deal with Madam Foster is _off_, then I'LL GET ADOPTED WITHIN SECONDS AND I'LL NEVER SEE YOU EVER AGAIN! I knew my own awesomeness would be my horrific downfall someday!"

And as suddenly as Bloo had entered into a state of panic, he now rolled off of his creator in an utter daze of self-pity. His voice flamboyantly tearful, Bloo lamented, "Oh, _Mac._ I never thought this day would come. I never thought you'd _leave me. _And yet…" Bloo burst into a bout of dramatic tears before continuing, "_No_, don't say it's for the best. Goodbye, old fri—"

Mac cut him off with a quick smack to the side of Bloo's head. _"Bloo," _Mac said angrily, "We already went through this last year. And the year before_._ …_And_ three hours ago. I set it all up with Mr. Herriman and he said that I would be excused from visiting you on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday because of my 'extenuating circumstances.' Now would you _please _quit your pity party and help me reset the checkerboard?"

Bloo abruptly ceased the histrionics and said, simply, "Oh."

Just as Mac and Bloo had replaced each piece in its designated place and taken their respective seats across the table from each other, the doorbell rang.

It was pizza night.

Though Mac and Bloo had raced each other to the foyer, Frankie got there first—she'd been vacuuming the burgundy shag rug in the entryway. All the way there, Bloo had loudly yelled, "The pizza's here! The pizza's here! Did we order pineapple?" and Mac had yelled equally loudly, "Bloo! You don't even like pineapple. _Bloo!" _They both came to a screeching halt at the front door and barely missed colliding with Frankie. "Did we order pineapple?" Bloo asked enthusiastically as he tugged at the hem of Frankie's skirt. Frankie looked down at him, her hand frozen on the doorknob, and sighed. She'd had a long day—as per usual—and her patience was running thin, to say the least. _"No, _Bloo. We did _not _order pineapple. Because no one in the House _likes _pineapple pizza." Right on cue, Bloo began a querulous moaning which eventually subsided into incoherent grumblings about Frankie never getting the pizza order right. As Mac exchanged a sympathetic look with her, the doorbell rang again.

Frankie pulled open the front door to reveal a large stack of pizza boxes that obscured much of the figure holding them. Chris, the pizza delivery boy, (who really was, by no means—other than his minimum-wage paying job—any longer a boy) was attempting to crane his neck around the boxes he was holding. In a brief two year period, Chris had gone from being a gawky, acne-covered sixteen-year-old to being a clear-faced, decent-looking, well-postured eighteen-year-old. Who still worked as a pizza delivery boy and was still equally as awkward as the day he'd first delivered pizza to Foster's. Mac had a feeling that Chris underwent this transformation in an attempt to woo a certain twenty-four-year-old, red-headed caregiver. Mac grew livid just thinking about it. However, Mac's anger quickly ebbed when he noticed the figure standing next to Chris.

It was a bipedal tiger.

The tiger was about the same height as Frankie. It looked pretty filthy and worn. It had a white belly and white paws and a white face. Elsewhere, it was striped with black and a shade of orange that was somewhere between deep saffron and pumpkin. Its large black nose twitched. It held its front paws—though they were probably more akin to hands than paws—clasped together contemplatively.

An imaginary friend, no doubt, though a rather convincing etching of a tiger—albeit a bit too fluffy and humanoid to be menacing.

After several moments of silence, Chris finally said, "My…er…boss found this guy going through the dumpster out back. Said the guy was looking for tuna fish. Scared the living daylights out of me—_I mean_…" he hastily corrected, "my boss…when he found him. Thought he was a real tiger." Chris laughed uncomfortably. "Nearly soiled his pants, my boss did," Chris added unnecessarily, shifting the large stack of pizza boxes in his hands. When no one said anything, Chris hastily added, "But then the tiger started talking so I figured I could just bring him here. 'Cause he's an imaginary friend. …Right?"

Frankie opened her mouth to say something, but before she could get a syllable out, Bloo interjected, "_Cooool. _A _tiger._" Frankie shot him a dirty look and opened her mouth to talk again, only to be cut off once more by Bloo. "Do you do tricks? How many people have you eaten? How'd you learn to stand? Can you jump through a ring of fire? What's it like to eat people? If you want to, you can demonstrate on my diminutive _homo sapien _friend here. I always wanted to meet a _real_ tiger. Not that I haven't before, it's just—" _"BLOO! _This is _not _a real tiger," Frankie said, quashing Bloo's monologue, "This is an imaginary friend. Didn't you listen to anything Chris just said?" Bloo looked at her as if she'd just asked the most opaque question the world had ever known. "_No," _Bloo said, "_Of course not._ Why would I ever listen to anything what's-his-name-pizza-guy has to say?" Bloo gave a haughty, all-knowing sigh and said exasperatedly, "Frankie, Frankie, _Frankie._ Frankie. Frankie. Fuh-_rain-_kee. Fr—" _"SHUT UP, BLOO!" _Frankie, Mac, and Chris yelled simultaneously.

Finally, Frankie was afforded the opportunity to address the newcomer. "You can totally stay here if you'd like," she said kindly, in her matter-of-fact caregiver way. "We have food that doesn't come out of a dumpster. And electricity and running water. And 1,340 other Friends you can hang out with, give or take a few. And everything's completely free. You'd be totally welcome here." She smiled supportively.

The tiger seemed to contemplate this for a bit. Finally, in an earnest voice that expressed both politeness and a hint of peculiar impishness, he said, "Do you have any tuna fish?"

Frankie grinned at the tiger, paid Chris, and took the pizza boxes. "We sure do," she said. "Let's get you washed up before dinner. Then after you eat, you can go on the House tour. What's your name, buddy?"

The tiger flashed a winning smile. "Hobbes."

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><p><em>AN: Thank you for reading. __My apologies for any spelling or grammatical errors. I try._

_Shall I continue? Please let me know. Reviews, as always, are welcomed and greatly appreciated. Particularly constructive criticism. __Thanks a million._


	2. Chapter 2

"Um, so listen, new guy. Since you're a _new guy, _and I'm, well, _not, _that means that _I_ get to have your slice of pizza. Sorry. House rules."

Hobbes looked down from his perch on the chair at the blue blob that was talking to him. "That's fine," Hobbes said calmly, "I only eat pizza with _bleu _cheese."

Well, that was easier than Bloo thought it would be. As Bloo reached up to the tiger's plate to take the slice of pizza, he chanced a glance at Hobbes. Hobbes was grinning toothily—though his _teeth_ were probably more aptly described as _fangs—_at him. Something about that sardonic smile made Bloo retract his greedy hand. _Oh. _Bleucheese, _blue_ cheese. Bloo cheese. "Heh, heh," Bloo chortled uncomfortably. "_Juuuust _kidding. You know…new guy…joke…heh, heh." Now the tiger was smiling at him understandingly. "Heh…" Bloo racked his brain for something to say. "So, nice weather we're having," he said finally, hastily, and then hurried off without explanation to sit on the other side of Eduardo. Hobbes smiled to himself as he ate his pizza. Bloo sure did remind him of someone.

It was still raining at bedtime.

"I'm telling you, I'm in mortal danger! The tiger is a sadistic, psycho, bloodthirsty feline! _He wants to eat me! _He implicitly said so,_" _Bloo said as he turned down the sheets on the bottom bunk and climbed in.

Wilt, Coco, and Eduardo rolled their eyes. "I'm sorry, Bloo," Wilt said, "But I think you might have misjudged him. He seemed like a nice guy when I gave him the House tour." Bloo sighed, leaned over the side of his bunk, and angled his face toward the floor in order to better communicate with Wilt. "Yes. He _seemed _like a pretty nice guy. Operative word? _Seemed. _But that's fine. You don't have to believe me. Just don't come crying to me tomorrow when all that's left of me are fond memories."

"But Azul," Eduardo said, "how is we going to come crying to you if __el tigre___ has eaten you?"_

"And, no offense," Wilt added in his kindest, most patient voice, "but if Hobbes wanted to eat someone, why wouldn't he eat someone…you know…bigger? Like me. Or Ed." Eduardo whimpered in the top bunk. "Co," Coco said, agreeing.

Bloo sighed once again and said, "Well, I can see you three are suffering from delusions of grandeur, so I'll have to spell this out for you: Obviously, Hobbes is a tiger. And everyone knows that tigers never settle for anything less than the best. So if Hobbes wanted to eat an imaginary friend, he would only settle for eating the Best Imaginary Friend Ever. Which, of course, would be me."

The other three rolled their eyes once more.

"So," Bloo concluded, "case closed. By the time you three wake tomorrow, I'll be long gone. So goodbyecruel world, goodbye. Forever."

Two minutes of silence passed.

"And don't you guys touch any of my stuff when I'm dead!"

When Bloo awoke the next morning, he was very much alive. Not only that, but the sun had come out, the birds were singing, and there was not a cloud in the sky. He yawned and got out of bed. Bloo had already made it to the door when he noticed how vacant the room was… That was strange. Wilt, Coco, and Eduardo weren't in their beds.

"_Wilt?" _Bloo called, examining Wilt's spot under the bunk bed. Nothing but dust bunnies. _"Coco?" _Bloo examined her empty nest, panic rising in his gut. _"Eduardo?" _The top bunk was completely unoccupied; even Paco the stuffed bunny was ambiguously absent. Bloo stood absolutely still for one second, then burst into hysterics. _"You've all been eaten by a sadistic jungle cat! _WHY? Oh, _why? _Why did you have to go and leave me like this? WHY?" Bloo threw himself on the floor and pounded at it until he came to a revelation. "…Well, Ed, I know you'd want me to have your life savings, so—"

Just as Bloo was reaching for Eduardo's safe that was hidden at the bottom of Ed's chest of stuffed animals, the door swung open.

"Uh…Azul? What is you doing with my stuffed animals?"

Wilt, Coco, and Eduardo had walked in. "You guys are _alive!"_ Bloo had a look of genuine surprise on his face.

"Yeah," said Wilt pleasantly, "We just had breakfast." "You looked so peaceful sleeping, like _un peque__ño_ _perrito._ So we didn't want to wake you," Eduardo added. Coco just gave him a warm-hearted, absent-minded stare.

"…Oh."

The week rolled on, and Bloo remained uneaten. Mac visited daily, as usual, and grew more and more anxious as time passed: he was nervous about his father's visit. The progression from reasonable-and-good-tempered Mac to hysterically-nervous-and-anxious Mac happened gradually throughout the week, just as it did every year. The signs were subtle: it would start with seemingly innocuous nail-chewing, and then increased moodiness, which would lead to decreased food consumption, which, in turn, would lead to even more increased moodiness; then came the hair-pulling, the pen-clicking, and the strange, shifting glances; this would be followed by excessive suspicion of virtually everything, marked by intense self-doubt and decreased perception of self-worth; finally, there would be the hyper-anxiety, as though he'd consumed an unreasonable amount of sugar—however, in the case of the anxiety, Mac's clothes usually stayed on. At this point, any remark from any given person seemed like a denigrating one to him. "Good job today" somehow implied "Bad job every other," while "I'm so lucky you're here" became "I'm lucky, I guess, but I wish you were more athletically-built. Why are you such a wimp? Your arms are like noodles," and comments like, "Thanks for the help," were perceived to be ironic.

In short, things were getting bad.

The inhabitants of Foster's did their best to tread lightly around him; even Mr. Herriman lightened up and became less overbearing. Wilt somehow managed to apologize even more; Coco spoke gently and only used small words, while Eduardo literally tiptoed around when Mac was near, in fear of startling the boy with the loudness of his footsteps. Some, like Bloppy Pants, avoided him completely. The problem was that Mac, being as bright as he was, always noticed and accused them of patronizing him and treating him like a mint-condition vintage toy.

Generally, the only ones who treated him exactly the same as any other day were Duchess, who never failed to treat him with revulsion, and Bloo, who was whimsical and insensitive as always. But this year, someone new was added to the list.

Hobbes had a sincere way of behaving toward Mac; the bipedal tiger was generally relatively kind, but he didn't cease his sardonic remarks on account of Mac's increased sensitivity. This, of course, Mac assumed, was due to the fact that Hobbes had only known him for three days.

On Thursday, Mac lost it and began yelling at Frankie and Eduardo in the kitchen, who had been taking out the garbage without him, though Mac usually helped take out the garbage. Hobbes just so happened to stroll into the room as Mac's rant wound down.

"AND I AM _NOT _A MINT-CONDITION VINTAGE TOY!"

Done yelling, Mac stood there, in the kitchen, panting. Ed began sobbing, and Mac instantly regretted his volatility. He felt shame boiling up in his stomach and said, "I'm really sorry, Ed. I guess I just…" He trailed off as Eduardo fled the room. He caught Frankie cast him a disapproving glance and trying to cover it up as a misaligned contact lens—even though she didn't wear contacts. It was as she was leaving the kitchen that Mac noticed Hobbes standing in his midst. Hobbes was eating a sandwich and looking pensive. He simply stood there for a few moments, eating, seemingly oblivious to the tension in the room. Then, the tiger said, "I don't suppose you'll want some of this…" and examined the uneaten half of his sandwich. "Tuna fish and mayonnaise on rye. You wouldn't happen to like tuna fish and mayonnaise on rye, would you?" Mac, still embarrassed about losing his temper, simply stared at his feet. A white, furry hand came into his line of vision, holding out the remaining sandwich half. Mac looked up at Hobbes; there was nothing awkward about the tiger's demeanor. In fact, Hobbes struck him as somehow having a regal yet puckish bearing. The boy took the sandwich and obligingly took a bite; he didn't much care for tuna fish and mayonnaise on rye—particularly because Mac preferred to eat each component of his sandwich separately, and that simply didn't work so well with gelatinous tuna fish—but it was comforting to have something in his stomach.

"I don't want you to take this the wrong way," Hobbes said as Mac ate, "but I _think _your abandonment issues might be obstructing your friendships."

Mac looked up, surprised. "My…what?" He could hardly believe that someone—someone who wasn't Bloo—had said that to him during Crisis Week. Was Hobbes being sarcastic? Mac couldn't tell.

"Your abandonment issues," said Hobbes, who was nonchalantly examining his claws. "Try not to worry about it too much. To err is human. Perfection belongs exclusively to us Bengal tigers."

He was definitely being sarcastic. _Definitely. _…Maybe.

"I don't have abandonment issues."

Hobbes smiled sadly. "Sure you do. So do I. It takes one to know one, as they say."

At this point, Bloo entered the kitchen. Seeing Mac holding a sandwich, Bloo immediately coveted it. "You didn't tell me we were having sandwiches." He took the remaining quarter sandwich from Mac and popped it into his own mouth, only to gag at the taste. _"Blech!_ Tuna! Disgus…" Bloo trailed off as he suddenly took notice of Hobbes. The former, chuckling nervously, quickly backed out of the kitchen and could be heard scurrying down the hall. Hobbes smiled at Mac knowingly, exposing two perfect rows of shiny, white teeth. The tiger left the kitchen, perhaps to find and harass Bloo, leaving Mac alone with his thoughts.

Mac couldn't help but be a little stung by Hobbes' words. After all, it wasn't his _own _fault that his father had up and left shortly after Mac was born. It wasn't his _own _fault that his father obviously preferred Terrence to him. It wasn't his _own _fault that his father saw nothing of himself in Mac, hard as Mac struggled for understanding and affection. He couldn't help it that his father found him childish and naïve, even _after _Mac had (presumably) given up Bloo.

His father didn't understand him. There just wasn't anything Mac could do about it.


	3. Chapter 3

Bloo was in the game room, intensely focused on a game of Space Invaders. He was animatedly swinging the controller around, repeatedly jamming down a large, red button. Hobbes stalked in, completely unnoticed by Bloo. It wasn't until Hobbes sat down on the couch next to Bloo and started talking conversationally that the blue Friend took notice of him. "I've made up my mind," Hobbes said. Bloo quite literally jumped out of his seat in surprise; he landed on the floor and rolled under the arm of the couch. "I've decided I'm not going to devour you alive," continued Hobbes, completely deadpan. The tiger crossed his legs, clasped his hands together, laid them atop his knees, and smiled diplomatically. For someone who was sarcastic so often, Bloo had a remarkable amount of trouble discerning Hobbes' own brand of irony. But then, Hobbes was much bitterer than he used to be; his wit, which had been wry and biting even in the beginning, had become a honed weapon of acidic repartee over the years. Hobbes occasionally caught himself being overly cruel with his sarcasm and resented himself for it, but couldn't think of a way to remedy this. He thought wistfully of happier times and then resented himself more for it._ You should have known, _he thought, _Nothing lasts forever. It was nobody's fault._

Truth be told, Hobbes was happy at Foster's. Happier than he'd been in a long time. He'd spent a while wandering the streets, but people were surprisingly ignorant when it came to discerning Imaginary Friend Bengal Tigers from Real Actual Bengal Tigers. He'd actually been put in a zoo for two months—he was a _talking bipedal feline, _for goodness' sake, how hard could it be to figure out he was an imaginary friend?—until he'd managed to convince his caretaker through intelligent negotiation to let him go. Then, he'd continued his life as a vagabond. He'd worn a red scarf in an attempt to inform the masses that he was innocuous, but people still avoided him on the streets. But maybe that was because he was dirty and smelly from rooting through garbage bins for food. At least in the zoo, they gave him three square meals a day. Eventually, a kindhearted preteen girl and her parents had taken him in on account of his emaciated appearance. They fed him and kept him clean. They were no one special, really, and he felt no deep connection with any of the three. But they were kind. That was what mattered. He'd stayed with them for nearly three years. But then, her parents had gotten a divorce, and suddenly, neither of them was willing to take the tiger into his or her home. But before he left, Hobbes gave the girl his scarf to remember him by.

Then, more wandering. He never got into any trouble with the exception of the previous zoo incident. He lived off the generosity of the benevolent.

And finally, miraculously, he found Foster's. Or, rather, Foster's found him.

It wasn't as though his time as a drifter had been entirely unpleasant; he'd learned new things, met new people and Friends. He'd actually visited almost every library in almost every town he'd come by. _Libraries. _He'd never been to one, barely even thought about one with—

No, he wouldn't think about _that._

But Foster's was nice. It was great. When he'd taken a bath on the first night of his stay, the bathwater had turned black with his accumulated filth. He'd had to drain the tub and start anew. And that's what Foster's was all about, right? Starting anew.

Someone was saying something… Hobbes realized he'd been lost in his thoughts and quickly came back to reality. What had Bloo just said? It sounded like, _"Really?" _What had they been discussing? Oh, yes.

"Really," Hobbes affirmed. Presently, Bloo was standing in front of Hobbes and eyeing him suspiciously. "How do I know I can trust you, you feline menace?" Bloo inquired. Hobbes raised his right hand. "'I meant what I said and I said what I meant. A tiger's loyal one hundred percent,'" he swore. Bloo was still suspicious. Hobbes could see it in his eyes. _"Really?" _said Bloo. "Well, I can see what you're thinking, mister. It's written all over your face. You're thinking, _'Gosh, wouldn't Bloo taste good wrapped in prosciutto with a side of garlic mashed potatoes,' _but, NO! I'd taste terrible wrapped in prosciutto with a side of garlic mashed potatoes! I'm too starchy for that!"

Hobbes gave Bloo a look of innocent sincerity and said, "Actually, that's not what I was thinking at all." "Oh, _really," _demanded Bloo. "Then what _were _you thinking?"

Hobbes smiled at a happy memory. "Sorry," said the tiger, "I dispense the inner workings of my mind for nothing less than a _buck." _

"A _buck? _A bu—_no one's _thoughts are worth a buck! Rip-off artist!"

Bloo tried to give Hobbes a swift kick to the shin, but Hobbes was too fast. The tiger swung his legs up onto the couch.

_"Mine _are. In fact, this one's worth nothing short of _ten _bucks."

_"Ten? _No way! I, Blooregard Q. Kazoo, will _not_ be extorted!"

"Too bad. This one's a real gem." Hobbes was smiling wildly, trying hard to fend off a vivid flashback.

"Augh! Come _onnnnn. _Just _tell _me."

"Nope. You'll have to pay up first."

Bloo began ransacking his pockets that only appeared when he needed them. "All I have's a quarter and some purple lint. But the purple lint is rare, so it's worth _at least _a hundred dollars. Do you have change for that?"

Hobbes was trying very hard to stifle laughter. "Keep the lint. I'll take the quarter. But don't start thinking you'll get discounts for all my thoughts. This is a one-time deal."

Bloo scrunched up his face into a glare as he handed over his 25¢. Hobbes drew in his breath and said philosophically, "I was thinking that you're a clever, narcissistic maniac. …And that I don't like prosciutto. Too fatty." Bloo gawped at Hobbes, dumbfounded. "RIP-OFF ARTIST!" Bloo yelled, and this time, his kick made contact. Hobbes, after clutching his shin in pain and baring his teeth, gave chase to Bloo, who was booking it down the hallway. Bloo, however, took a turn Hobbes was unfamiliar with, being new to the house, and the tiger lost track of Bloo in a circular corridor which had doorways around its entire circumference.

The tiger sighed and went to get himself a snack.

* * *

><p>That night, as Bloo clambered into bed, a glint caught his eye: His quarter was sitting on the bedside table, right underneath the lamp.<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **I will be moving this fic to the crossover section when I post the next chapter. If you intend to follow it, please be aware of this. Thanks!

* * *

><p>It was Friday: Mac's day of reckoning.<p>

He tried to tell himself to be optimistic as he walked home from the grocery store, but he was too full of despondency. He had a _bad_ feeling about his father's impending visit. So bad, in fact, that he'd enthusiastically taken it upon himself to complete his mother's errands. Anything to keep his mind off of the visit.

But maybe _this _would be the time his father would grow to accept Mac the way he was. _Ha!_ Mac had to suppress a grim laugh at the thought. Of course it wouldn't be the time. Mac knew deep down that it never would be.

At least, when Mac had had Bloo with him, he'd had an incredible security blanket. Not only that, but he'd had someone to talk to. As he turned the corner and drew close to his apartment building, he spotted his father's car in the parking lot. He stopped dead in his tracks; the world suddenly seemed thirty degrees colder. Now, climbing the stairs to his apartment, lugging five grocery bags stuffed with assorted goods, Mac felt more alone than ever. He took each step as slowly as he could manage; he knew that when he entered the apartment, his father would be sitting there, in the living room. His father would be speaking with Terrence, and the TV would be tuned into the sports channel. The boys' mother would be sitting reservedly in the room, exuding an air of cool antipathy; she hadn't been able to stand their father even before the divorce.

Mac was standing before the door to the apartment, his hand frozen, hovering over the knob. He had half a mind to make a break for it and escape to Foster's while he had the chance, but there was always the threat that Terrence would somehow manage to reveal Mac's whereabouts. Finally, Mac summoned all his resolve and stepped into the flat.

Sure enough, there were Terrence and Mom, just as Mac had anticipated. There was the sports channel. And there was Moe.

Moe was sitting in an armchair lazily, gazing over the apartment as though he owned the place. He was wearing a scruffy black T-shirt and jeans. His black hair was shaggy, as always. Moe was smiling, but Mac could tell that his father wasn't glad to see him. No doubt Moe and Terrence had been having a quaint conversation about baseball or boxing or mixed martial arts. And now they were probably internally lamenting over how their conversation was ruined because of Mac's general disinclination to organized sports.

"Hey, kid," Moe said huskily, greeting his son. His voice was so gruff that whenever he spoke, the noise produced sounded like barking. Moe never referred to Mac by his first name. Mac occasionally found himself imagining his father calling him, Mac, by his given name, wondering what it would sound like. And then he would stop, because he'd realize he truly had no idea what Moe's voice would sound like saying, "Mac." (He'd once gone so far as to steer their conversation toward the discussion of mac 'n' cheese in an attempt to hear his father's voice say, "Mac." Moe, however, had not been so keen to pick up on the topic of pasta.)

"Hi, Dad…" Mac forced himself to smile. After setting down the grocery bags, the boy approached his father slowly, steadily. When Mac was within arm's reach of Moe, the latter clasped his dinner-plate-sized hand hard on Mac's shoulder. "Good to see ya," Moe barked, but the way he said it sounded as if he were saying something like, "I'm so glad I work a thankless job." Mac couldn't tell whether he was imagining it or not, but he thought he caught a stale whiff of alcohol on his father's breath. The boy glanced at his mother, who offered him a half-hearted smile. She was never happy when Moe was around, but she looked relieved to see Mac. Her eyes softened and her hand gripping her glass of water relaxed a touch.

"So, Twinky," Moe said, "Playin' any sports?" Mac tried not to wince. Moe attempted to pass "Twinky" off as a term of endearment, but it really didn't work by any means. A few years back, Mac and Bloo—who were supposed to be in bed—had overheard Mac's mother telling Moe off for calling Mac "Twinky." She'd said it was degrading and just unequivocally mean; it implied that Mac was diminutive and resigned, and Mac surely was _not_, and that even if Mac _was, _Moe should love him anyway. Moe had said he had no idea what that flippin' meant, anyhow.

Mac sighed and shook his head. "No, I'm not playing any sports," Mac said. Moe would bite his head off for this. He did every year. The boy set his jaw and waited for the blow. However, The Blow didn't come. Moe was momentarily distracted by some team scoring a goal on the television.

The Blow came four hours later, right smack-dab in the middle of dinner. One second, Moe had been eating broccoli beef that Mac's mom had ordered from the local Chinese food place, and the next, Moe was picking on Mac again.

"I tell ya, it's downright unnatural for a nine-year-old boy not to play any sports."

"I'm ten, Dad." Mac was trying to be patient. He didn't want to get into a fight with his father because he was afraid that Moe would withdraw his fatherly love. If Moe's fatherly love even existed in Mac's vicinity. It was funny; when Mac thought about it, he actually hadn't doubted that Moe had harbored some sort of familial affection for him until the first year Moe had visited while Bloo was living at Foster's. It was then, in the absence of Mac's security blanket and, more importantly, best friend, that Mac realized that he wasn't as loved as he had initially thought.

"Ya know," Moe said, his mouth full of half-chewed Chinese food, "there was a time when I'd've been able to say, 'No son of mine's a wimp,' but you just had to ruin that, didn'cha? At least you got ridda that good-for-nothing twinky imaginary friend of yours."

"_Moe," _Mac's mom interjected firmly. She gave Moe a very stern, very brisk look. But Moe continued, "I tell ya, if I didn't know any better, I'd say, 'There's no way a wimp like that's my flesh an' blood.'"

Mac vaguely hoped the pain he was feeling wouldn't show on his face.

That was it. He was done seeking Moe's approval. Mac had spent ten years too many thinking his father might someday come around and accept him. Ten years too many trying to convince himself that blatant insults were signs of affection.

He looked at his father and brusquely said, "Your outmoded, archaic views of gender roles exasperate me to no end." His father had been here for a good four hours and Mac was already done. His confidence had taken enough clouts over the years. If Mac was to be honest with himself, he'd admit that the straw that broke the camel's back had been loaded on years ago; the camel had just spent these years trying to convince itself that it was still functional.

Mac just wanted to lie down in a dark room. Alone. But Terrence would be sleeping in the top bunk of Mac's bed because Moe would be sleeping in Terrence's room. And Terrence was just a fifteen-year-old version of Moe, so he would terrorize his brother indefinitely. But Mac would have no more of this at the dinner table. "May I please be excused from the table?" he asked his mom, struggling to keep his voice level, not wanting to be terse with her. But he left without waiting for her answer.

All those years, Mac had thought that borderline verbal abuse was just the way Moe expressed his paternal love for Mac. All those years, Mac had been wrong. Moe was just an overgrown schoolyard bully. Well, it could be worse. At least Moe was never physically aggressive toward him or his mother. (He would never think of harming Terrence, his kindred spirit.)

Mac lay in his bunk with his eyes wide open. Sleeping was not an option right now. He tossed and turned. He could vaguely hear his mother's angry voice, rebuking Moe at the dinner table. He couldn't make out any words, but he could tell by the tone of her voice and by Moe's periodic attempts to interrupt her that she was furious.

Mac rolled over and heaved a pillow over his head. _Sleep. Sleep. Sleeeeeep. Go to sleep. Please. Just…drift off. Let it go. Go to sleep. GO TO SLEEP. _

No, sleeping was definitely not an option.

Mac got up and rummaged through his drawer for his CD player and headphones. In the process, he uncovered an old paddleball that had been lying that the bottom of the drawer, sedentary, for ages.

Bloo.

Now, Mac—when free of the influence of sugar—was not an irrational person under ordinary circumstances. For a ten-year-old, his sense of logic was extremely lucid. But this was no ordinary circumstance. Mac was suddenly hit with an intense desire to feel appreciated and accepted; to feel loved. Tucking the paddleball into his green backpack, Mac opened the window next to his bed. As a preliminary action, he tossed the backpack out of the window as gently as he could, aiming for what appeared to be the softest patch of grass.

Before departing, he paused a moment, making himself absolutely still. His parents were still yelling at each other in the dining room. They'd never notice. He would be there and back in no time. Right? Right.

Mac slowly, clumsily, climbed out of the window. With the assistance of some plants that held fast to the exterior of his apartment and a conveniently located telephone pole, he scaled two stories down the side of the building.

The night was brisk; darkness was well on its way to being fully set in, but a tender, purple pigmentation from dusk still lingered in the sky.

Mac picked up his backpack off of the damp grass and trekked to the sidewalk. He was off.


	5. Chapter 5

"Okay, Coco. Truth or dare?"

"Co."

"List…the names of your ex-boyfriends…in _alphabetical_ order!"

"Co Cococococo Coco."

"The _Abominable Snowman? _First of all, when I said, 'alphabetical order,' I meant '_reverse _alphabetical order.' _Second _of all, the name of the game is _Truth or Dare. _Not…Truth or _Lies…_I mean…Lies or Da—It isn't…uhh…It's not…Lying or…Truthing…YOU KNOW WHAT, COCO? JUST TELL THE TRUTH! Girls lose five points!"

Coco looked crestfallen. Bloo looked quite smug.

Hobbes was sitting with Bloo, Wilt, Coco, and Eduardo on the floor of the four roommates' bedroom. Hobbes' own bedroom was down the hall, but he spent as much time out of it as he could. For one, his roommate, Never Leave Steve, gave him the heebie-jeebies. For another, he had somehow bonded with Bloo over the past thirty or so hours. After Hobbes had returned Bloo's precious quarter, their friendship had simply come hurtling out of nowhere. Like a good old slushball.

But then again, like a slushball, perhaps it wasn't so random.

The tiger kneaded his eyebrows and steepled his fingers. As far as he knew, there were no points involved in Truth or Dare. Not that he'd ever played it with—

On the other hand, Bloo was running this show, and you never knew what you were going to get with _that. _Yes, Hobbes felt strangely at home with the little blue blob.

"Okay, Eduardo. You're up," Bloo aggressively stated, hyperactivity getting the best of him. Eduardo drew his hands in close to his chest, looking as timid as was possible for a 512-pound purple fuzz monster. "Truth…or _dare?" _Bloo growled as ominously as he could.

"I will take…" Ed began contemplatively, "…the truth."

"All right, Eduardo. _Who _was the fifty-seventh president of America?"

Eduardo looked hopelessly befuddled.

"Uh…Bloo? I'm sorry, but—" Wilt began. _"What?" _Bloo hissed. "It's not your turn, Wilt. Basketball players lose ten points!" "—but there haven't _been _fifty-seven presidents of America yet. I mean, no offense, but we're only on number—" "Minus ten _more _points, Wilt! Keep it up! I can go all night! I've got negative points up the wazoo—"

Lightning suddenly split the sky. The five Friends simultaneously jumped at a clap of thunder (Eduardo, perhaps, jumped a bit higher than the rest); the patter of heavy rainfall began its drone. A few minutes passed. Just when the five began to settle down again, there came another crack of lightning and, shortly after, a clap of thunder. This cycle repeated itself a few times as the five sat in silence, thinking and listening to the pitter-patter.

Ed, already restless, agitated, and shaking in his boots, was not at all comforted when there came a precipitous rapping at the window. He shrieked and darted under the bed when he caught sight of the pale, anxious face on the other side of the glass.

"_Mac!"_

Bloo scurried to the window and threw it wide open, allowing both the boy and the torrential rain into the room. Mac seemed to agonize in climbing over the window pane; he collapsed on the floor once inside and just lay there, unmoving. Wilt, Coco, and Hobbes rushed over to the boy as Bloo bent over him. Ed peeked out from his hiding place and, seeing that the intruder was friendly, crept out from under the bed. Coco quickly laid a lavender-colored egg, out of which popped a large, fluffy, cotton towel. As Wilt and Hobbes helped Mac to his feet, Coco ran around in a circle and laid another egg, an orange one. Bloo, who was struggling to close the window, abandoned his task to open the egg. Inside sat a steaming mug of hot chocolate. "Coco's cocoa!" Bloo exclaimed gleefully and began to raise the mug to his mouth. Before he could have a sip, however, he was stopped by Coco's foot, which she'd placed on his arm. _"Co,"_ she said firmly, "Co coco co co Co." A genuine look of surprise wiped across Bloo's face. _"What?_ What d'ya mean 'The cocoa is for _Mac'_? What makes you think he deserves cocoa more than—" At this point, Bloo glanced at his best friend, who, as it turned out, was soaked to the bone and shivering violently, his brown hair plastered to his pallid face. Bloo's righteous indignity evaporated. "Oh."

Wilt and Hobbes had set Mac down on the bottom bunk, Bloo's bed, and had wrapped the boy in the towel. Bloo handed him the mug of hot chocolate. Eduardo, wary of the curtains that were whipping around in the storm's gale, timidly approached the window and managed to wrench it shut.

Finally, all five of the friends gathered around Mac and simultaneously, anxiously, exclaimed his name.

"Mac!" Bloo, Wilt, and Hobbes yelled. "Señor Mac!" Eduardo bellowed. "Co!" Coco cried.

And then they all—except for Hobbes, who was watching Mac with sad eyes—started asking him questions, like, "What're you _doing _here?" and "I'm sorry, but are you okay?" and "Why did you climb through _la_ _ventana_?" and "Co co _co_ co?" and they created such a ruckus trying to talk over each other that Frankie, who had been mopping the floor down the hall, knocked on the door to see what all the commotion was about.

"Guys?" she called over the din. They all fell silent and looked at the closed bedroom door in horror. Mac had come in through the window instead of the front door, which meant that he wasn't where he was supposed to be, which meant that he didn't want to be discovered, which meant that Frankie should _not_ enter the bedroom. "What's going on in there? Is everything all right?"

Five pairs of apprehensive eyes turned to Bloo, the group's resident liar. Never one to disappoint, Bloo, not missing a beat, called, "Nothing, Frankie, we were just playing a harmless game of Truth or Dare. _Completely_ innocent." He thought for a moment and added in his most irritated voice, "And _you're_ interrupting! Now, be gone!" Frankie considered entering the room, but decided that she was _way _too tired to handle Bloo's antics at this time of night and that she would deal with whatever repercussions flew her way tomorrow. She stalked off down the hall to finish her chores.

Five Friends and one boy breathed sighs of relief.

Instead of all talking at once again, the others yielded to Bloo. Bloo looked his best friend in the eye with the most sympathetic look he could muster and asked, "What are you doing here, Mac?" But Mac just shook his head and held his hot cocoa closer. "I don't wanna talk about it," the boy said. "You guys just go on playing Truth or Dare…or whatever you were actually doing." He proceeded to lower himself into a reclined position on the bed.

Bloo, Wilt, Coco, Eduardo, and Hobbes all exchanged uneasy glances. As they'd suspected, something was definitely wrong. But they couldn't pry—that would drive Mac farther into his shell. Even Bloo wouldn't be able to get it out of him at the moment. They'd just have to be patient.

The five resolved to do as Mac had said and they continued their game. Bloo eventually passed over Eduardo, who, unable to determine who the fifty-seventh president of America was, lost six and a half points for Spanish-speakers.

"Your turn, Hobbes," Bloo announced. "Truth or dare?"

"Um, Azul," Eduardo interjected, "how come _you _get to ask all the questions?"

"Puh-lease. I get to ask all the questions because I'm the most _knowledgeable_. I seem to recall your inability to recall the fifty-seventh American Head of State."

"Do _you _know who the fifty-seventh American Head of State was, Azul?"

"…Of course I do! She…Her name was…uh…Pres—no. Pres…Prestina—no. Presiden…tianica… Pressy…Yeah, Pressy! Pressy…Dent."

Hobbes shot Bloo an incredulous look. "President _Pressy_ _Dent?"_

"Yes. President Pressy Dent."

"Say," said Hobbes, his voice taking on a mocking tone, "could you remind me what political party she represented?"

"Party? Uh…the…the…Pizza Party, of course!"

"And of course," continued the tiger, examining his claws, "she valiantly campaigned against the opposing party, the…"

"Taco Fiesta," Bloo, Hobbes, Eduardo, and Wilt simultaneously said; Coco chorused with "Coco Cococo." The latter four Friends could hardly contain their exasperation.

"Well, sheesh!" Bloo said. "At least you guys know _something. _I was beginning to worry about the future of our nation. I mean, _really._ You guys didn't even know who the fifty-seventh president was! As our founding fathers said, 'Ignorance—'"

"Co co co co co co co co?" Coco asked, irritated.

"Well, _yes, _Coco, we _could _'just get on with the game' if _you four _could stop distracting me with your stupidity! Now, where was I?"

"You were asking _El Tigre _if he wanted to take the truth or the dare."

"Ah! Yes. Hobbes. Truth or dare?"

Hobbes sincerely considered his options for a while. He supposed taking the truth would be the most painless. When Wilt had chosen "dare," Bloo had told him to run around the house five times in the buff. Of course, Wilt never really wore any clothes, anyway, so that hadn't been a real problem. But Bloo was so erratic, there was no knowing what Hobbes could get when asking for "dare." (He could be asked to emulate Never Leave Steve! The horror!) And besides, most of the "truth" questions Bloo was spouting out were relatively innocuous. But what if Hobbes couldn't answer, "What was Mac's pet goldfish's middle name?" He'd lose points…

Then, Hobbes paused a moment and wondered why he took these games so seriously. It definitely tied back to his time with—

Right. Never mind. Best to just answer.

"Truth."

Bloo thought for a moment. "If you could do something, anything you wanted, right _now, _what would you do and why?"

Oops. Wrong choice. Hobbes' stomach sank. For a brief moment, he considered giving a silly answer like he would have in days of yore, saying, "I'd sit here and play Truth or Dare with my friends." But that would be lying. In days of yore, when he'd get bombarded with these types of questions, he wouldn't have to lie. He'd just say the silly answer—whatever he so happened to be doing at that moment was what he truly wanted to be doing with his life. He was perfectly contented to be right where he was. It wasn't that he wasn't contented now; it was just that…he was missing something. Someone. A strong, painful feeling of nostalgia formed in the pit of the tiger's stomach.

"I would go find my creator. And ask him exactly _why_ he kicked me out."


	6. Chapter 6

Hobbes awoke to a violent shaking. "Hobbes! _Hobbes!" _someone was whispering. "What? _What?" _the tiger mumbled, semi-conscious. "'s it morning a'ready?" "Hobbes!" "I don' wanna make early morning prank calls to Susie 'gain—I…What? Oh!"

Mac and Bloo were standing over him, staring at him intently. It seemed that dawn was just breaking. "Let's _go, _Hobbes," Bloo said impatiently. "If we leave now," Mac added, "we can catch the 6:15 bus." Hobbes stared at the two, not comprehending. _"What?" _"C'mon, do you wanna go on this intergalactic road trip or _not?" _Bloo said loudly. Mac shushed him and glanced anxiously at Never Leave Steve's bed. Steve stirred but didn't seem to wake.

Hobbes paused a moment and recalled what had happened last night. After he'd answered Bloo's overly personal question, there had been about half a minute's worth of awkward silence. But then, instead of the other Friends looking at their feet or out the window or at some arbitrary spot on the carpet, embarrassed, like Hobbes had thought they'd do, they all gathered around him, and patted his back or took his hands in theirs. They hadn't rejected his pathos; they'd accepted it. It had almost _hurt _to feel so cared for.

Suddenly, Mac had bolted upright into a seated position. "That's it! Hobbes! We should go find your creator!" The five had all but forgotten about him entirely and had jumped at the sound of his voice. Four had stared at the boy, dumbfounded. Bloo, on the other hand, had exclaimed, "Yes! We'll go on an international road trip, hitchhiking around the globe!" He'd jumped up and started scurrying around the room. He had then pulled all of his paddleballs out of a drawer and started dumping them in a duffle bag.

Wilt had started to say something a few times, but had kept stopping himself. He had clearly been terribly afraid of treading around all this heightened sensitivity and fragility his friends were giving off. It was like walking on broken glass for him. Finally, he'd managed, "Um…Mac? I'm sorry, but…I don't think that's such a good idea. No offense, but…you could get into really big trouble…I'm sorry. Is that okay?"

And after that, Mac had seemed to recognize the foolishness of his plan. His face had adopted a despondent expression as he'd said, "I guess you're right…But I can't go back to the apartment…" and then he'd mumbled something about his father. Bloo, of course, had continued packing. Wilt's eyes had filled with empathy as he'd said to Mac, "I'm sorry, Mac. You're welcome to stay the night, but your mom is a nice lady. You shouldn't be distressing her by going missing all of a sudden. I'm sorry. Is that okay?"

Mac had sighed and stared at his shoes, dejected. "Yeah," he'd said, "I guess you're right." Bloo had then gawped at Mac. "But _Maaaac…" _Mac had given Bloo a long look and Hobbes could have sworn—but, no, he was probably imagining it—that Mac winked at his Friend. Finally, the boy had just waved his hand, dismissing Bloo's protest.

Then, Hobbes had wandered off down the hall after carefully making sure that Frankie was no longer outside. The funny thing was, he'd been _disappointed._ As crazy as it was, he'd wanted to go on a foolish excursion. Hobbes had, at one point, considered himself to be a reasonable feline. But what could he say? The years had shorn down his rationality. Maybe it was all that time confined in the zoo. And he'd told the truth: there was nothing he'd at that moment than some closure.

As he'd made his way down the hall, he'd vaguely wondered about his friends' sleeping arrangements (Wilt would surely offer his bed under the bunk, but where would Wilt sleep? Maybe they'd let Mac sleep in Coco's nest and have Coco share with Eduardo. The most logical arrangement would be having Mac and Bloo share and letting everyone else remain in their respective places.) and had consequently wondered if he should have somehow offered his own bed to the boy and slept on the floor himself…The tiger was, after all, accustomed to sleeping in uncomfortable places. Yes, in retrospect, he should have done that. But he had eventually dismissed all of these thoughts and, upon getting to his room and seeing that his roommate, Never Leave Steve, was already asleep, had collapsed into his bed and then promptly passed out cold.

Back in the present, Hobbes yawned a wide tiger yawn and got out of bed. Of _course _he wanted to go on this intergalactic road trip. With friends at his side, he'd have to courage to go back and ask _him_ to his face, _"Why, exactly, did you kick me out?" _Right? Right.

Mr. Herriman was still in the shower and Frankie wasn't awake yet, so it was easy enough to get out of the door. The three sprinted down the sidewalk to the nearest bus stop that was out of sight from the House. When they arrived, Hobbes noticed that Mac was unreasonably out of breath. Mac's backpack looked bulgier than usual, too. "I'll carry your backpack," Hobbes offered. Hobbes could see that Mac was about to protest, so the tiger just reached down and took the bag upon himself. It was, indeed, quite heavy. "What's _in_ here? A sedan?" Mac looked slightly abashed. "Just food and maps and first aid stuff." A few moments of silence passed. The bus could be seen a few blocks away.

"Judging by the absence of Wilt, Coco, and Eduardo, I'm guessing they're not joining us. Unless they're planning to sleep in and take a later bus and meet us at the pit stop," Hobbes said. Mac, again, flushed and rubbed the back of his neck. "No," the boy said. "It's just the three of us." And as he said this, he looked around at Bloo, who, as it turned out, was lying on the sidewalk, fast asleep. They nudged him awake just as the bus pulled up. The doors noisily swung open. Mac started to rummage through his backpack, which was still on the tiger's back, for the money he'd dug out of his piggy bank. Hobbes, smiling slightly, took his own money out and paid the bus fare for the three of them. Seeing Mac's questioning look, Hobbes said, "A penny saved is a penny earned," and shrugged. "I have a sufficient nest egg for rainy days such as these."

Mac and Bloo sat together and Hobbes took a seat in the row behind them, next to an elderly woman who was dozing, her head resting against the window. Mac and Bloo turned to face Hobbes. "Okay," Mac said. "Here's the plan: we're taking the bus to the train station. Then, we'll take the train to the region where your creator lives. Now…where _does_ your creator live?" Hobbes looked into Mac's eyes; they were completely trusting. Mac sincerely believed that Hobbes knew where his creator lived—he hadn't even thought to doubt Hobbes—with no basis to do so. Hobbes almost hurt to feel so trusted. Of course, Hobbes knew where his creator _used _to live, but what if he'd moved? What if…?

But this was no time for doubt. "The Midwest," Hobbes answered firmly. Mac had extracted a map from his backpack, which sat on Hobbes' lap, and was drawing on it with a highlighter, explaining their route to Hobbes and Bloo. The tiger, however, started to phase out. In spite of what he'd just told himself, dark, creeping little doubts were beginning to find their way into his mind. They'd only traveled four city blocks for heaven's sake! But…he'd just found a new home—and not just _any _home, he'd found _Foster's_—and all of a sudden, he was running off again. Not only that, but he was being incredibly selfish. What was he _doing_ dragging Mac and Bloo into his personal issues? They obviously wanted to come, but—

"What's his name?"

"What?" Hobbes asked. Bloo was staring him right in the face. "Your creator," Bloo prompted. "What's his name?" Hobbes tried not to look surprised at his thoughts being interrupted; he eventually managed a wry smile. "How do you know my creator is a 'he'?" Bloo rolled his eyes. "Puh-_lease,_" he said in his snootiest voice,_ "_Girls have cooties and you don't. Therefore, your creator is a _guy."_

Well, Hobbes couldn't argue with that logic. And here he had been starting to think that humans were all matter and material. It seemed he was wrong again, disproved by the existence of the intangible _cooties_.

"Calvin," Hobbes finally said. It was funny to hear his own voice speaking Calvin's name. He hadn't said it in years. Consciously, at least. He was so used to mechanically pushing Calvin out of his thoughts, Hobbes assumed Bloo was through asking questions on the subject. But, no.

"What does he look like? What job does he have? Is he a racecar driver? Is he filthy rich?" Bloo pressed frenziedly, practically jumping up and down in the plastic bus seat, warranting strange looks through the rear view mirror from the bus driver. _"Bloo," _Mac cautioned. The elderly woman next to Hobbes was stirring. "Well…" Hobbes said, putting his paw to his furry chin. "I guess, when he was a kid, he looked kind of like…Mac, but with blond hair. But…also," Hobbes paused and squinted his eyes before continuing, "completely different." Hobbes sat in silence for a moment, recalling something. He considered not saying anything else, but when he looked back at his two fellow voyagers, he couldn't help but keep talking. They both looked so genuinely curious, he just kept on going.

"You know something? He's a clever, narcissistic maniac like you, Bloo," Hobbes said, smiling. It felt strangely good to be talking about Calvin. It was cathartic. "I'll tell ya," the tiger continued, "There was this time when he thought he was going to be the next Houdini and he had me tie him to this chair…_Ha!_ That didn't work out so well for him. You should've seen the look on his dad's face when he had to come untie 'Mr. Houdini.' Utter bamboozlement, I tell you. Took a good half hour. Calvin always had quite the knack for getting into these…predicaments." Hobbes smiled fondly in spite of himself.

He told them stories until they arrived at the train station half an hour later.


End file.
